


Look to the Stars

by UseYourDelusion



Series: You Can't Always Get What You Want [2]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UseYourDelusion/pseuds/UseYourDelusion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is dead - but why exactly isn't Scott mourning? And why does Logan wants to talk to him so desperately?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When All Seems Lost

**Author's Note:**

> This work refers to the events that happened in the Uncanny X-Men #114, in which Jean and Hank are separated from the rest of the team during the fight in Magneto's lair, and are thought to be dead. The X-Men escape to the Savage Land, where Scott has to face the fact that the woman he loves is dead, and the revelation about his parents.
> 
> Not proof-read, unfortunately.

The sky looked different here. Not only was it clear, much clearer than anything Scott had ever seen before, but the stars somehow seemed closer and brighter. Even through the ruby quartz, it was beautiful. Scott didn’t recognize any of the constellations - he knew that Southern Cross had to be somewhere, but he didn’t know where, and other than that, he knew nothing about stars in this part of the world. He could remember his brief interest in astronomy as a kid, but back then, he had never thought he would ever end up in the Savage Land.

The rest of the team - Sean, Kurt, Logan, Pyotr and Ororo - were sleeping, exausted after a long day of digging through rocks and then exploring. Scott, however, had found himself unable to sleep, and left his cabin. He went to the lake, and was now lying on the shore, looking at the night sky.

After the vision – his father's face on the silvery, mirror-like water surface – memories were returning to Scott, one by one, filling the empty space in his mind that was his childhood. Most of them, however, were brief, if bright and colorful. A yellow balloon escaping Scott's grasp, floating away in the blue sky. A white tablecloth on the green grass, red plates with all kinds of treats piled on them. A big, beautiful book he found on his table one morning, with dark blue dust jacket and words "The Sky At Night" printed on it in large golden letters...

Colors. So many colors back then and only red and black now. Scott wondered if he could somehow stop remembering things he had long forgotten. Right now, he didn't need more pain: he had enough of that already.

Jean and Hank were dead, buried under the ruins of what was Magneto's compound. Magneto himself was on the loose, probably hiding in whatever secret base he had. Professor was far away, and they had no means to reach him. Finally, the part of the X-men that was alive wasn't in the best condition - except, of course, for Wolverine, who got to fight a giant pterosaur and immediately decided that he liked it here. Storm was angry with Scott, and she had every right to be. All in all, it was a giant mess, and he was the one responsible. Some leader he turned out to be.

It was good to be here, in the Savage Land, Scott thought. Not actually good, but much better than going back to Westchester, where he would have to look Charles in the eye and tell him that Scott Summers, his best and most dutiful student, had failed. That he had let his teammates die. And worst of all, he wasn't even sorry about Jean's death. There was no grief or pain in his soul, and Scott didn't know why...

...Okay, maybe he did know why, but that made everything even worse.

It had been two weeks since his... encounter with Logan, and Scott was barely able to think about anything else. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, it was as if he’d never left Logan's room. Scott could even smell Logan on his skin - a mixture of tobacco, sweat, alcohol and something else, something that was uniquely Logan. He could almost feel Logan’s strong, calloused hands touching him - his chest, his back, his face, everywhere.

"We need to resolve this" - Scott's own words echoed in his head. Of course, one could argue that what had happened between him and Logan was, in its own way, a solution to the problem, but Scott realized it only made things more complicated. He didn't want to tell Jean about it; mostly because he had no idea how to talk about it. After all, he thought, you don't just casually walk up to your fiancée and tell her, "Honey, I had sex with the crazy clawed Canadian mutant that was flirting with you. You know what? I really liked it."

Scott had always suspected that his tastes were not entirely straight. More than once he found himself wwstaring at an attractive guy in the street, or in a magazine or tv ad, wondering how it would feel like to kiss those lips, to have that beautiful, well-muscled body pressed against yours. More than once when he was alone in New York on X-men business, he wanted to go to one of those bars he had heard about, pick someone up, give it a try. The temptation was strong, yet he resisted. Going there would mean admitting that he was not what he pretended to be. That he was different.

He was good at hiding what he really wanted.

And then Logan came along, and Scott could hide it no more. God, why did it have to be Logan? Why couldn't it be someone safe and familiar, like Warren? Or somebody from outside, somebody nice, like Steve or Peter? Almost anybody else would have been better than this guy.

But it was Logan who turned him on like no-one else ever did. Every urge Scott desperately tried to hide deep inside his soul, Logan brought back to the surface. He was rude, wild, unpredictable, everything Scott thought to be dangerous. A force of Nature, like a hurricane or a tsunami. Everything Scott didn't want to like, to need so desperately. Everything he wanted to hate about Logan, but couldn't. Scott wondered if that feeling of animosity they both shared in the beginning was, in fact, lust, if beneath the desire to fight and hit was the desire to touch, to stroke, to kiss. Maybe there was something to it, he thought.

Maybe, he thought, Jean would understand.

Then again, maybe not.

Their relationship had been strained, to say the least. Jean was Phoenix once again, and Scott didn't like it. When Phoenix had begun to manifest and Jean had begun to change, Scott thought he could deal with it, that he could accept it. He loved Jean no matter what. He had told this himself so many times he almost believed it. And yet, whenever he looked at Jean, he couldn't but notice how different she was from the woman he once loved. So different, that, in fact, she was someone else entirely.

Someone Scott didn't love.

There was a part of him that wished he had told Jean everything: about Logan, about what Scott really was, what he wanted. But another part told him it was too cruel: she still loved him, after all. And he didn't want to break her heart. To break Charles's dream of having an ideal poster mutant couple. Scott had to think about was best for the team, the school, their image. To do what was best.

From where he stood, it looked like he had failed at everything at once.

"Is everything okay, Slim?" he heard a voice the behind him and sat up, startled. It was Logan, of course - Scott still had no idea how the man managed to move so silently.

"I'm fine," Scott answered without turning around. "You should go back to sleep."

"Tried. Couldn't."

Logan sat down on the ground close to Scott. It was hard not to look at him now, especially since his usual yellow costume had been taken away by the locals, who had kindly offered to mend it, and all he was wearing now, was, essentially, a loincloth.

From the folds of said loincloth Logan produced a small flask Scott had seen so often before and offered it to Scott, who, this time, agreed without saying anything. He opened it and took a gulp of brandy, then returned the flask to its owner, who also took a sip of fiery liquid.

"So, how long you've been whacking yourself with guilt, bub?"

There was sadness in Logan's voice, sadness and understanding with just a little hint of sarcasm. He offered Scott the flask again, and Scott took it.

"What makes you think I'm whacking myself with anything?"

"You're a good boy, Summers. Guilt is good boys' fuel of choice. You're never good enough, no matter how good you are. You're forever guilty of not being ideal. But you keep thinking that maybe, just maybe, if you try just a little harder, you'll be that ideal. I wonder how many good boys realize it's a lie before it's too late."

Scott drank the rest of the brandy. He could feel the alcohol kicking in: his head somehow felt heavy and light at the same time, and a pleasant feeling of warmth spreading through his body. But he was also getting angry: at professor for using him in his own game with Magneto, at Jean for becoming Phoenix and using that goddamn blast that almost buried them alive. He was angry at Logan for figuring the whole thing out, for being right. He hated him for being Logan, for turning up so unexpectedly in their lives, for changing everything. Scott could be happy with Jean, had Logan not shown up.

"With all due respect, you are not my shrink, Logan."

"Maybe I just want to help."

"I don't need your help."

"You sound angry, Summers. I wonder why that might be?"

"How about the fact that my fiancée just died?"

"Like you give a damn about her. You talk more about losing Hank than about her. At first I thought, maybe you'll find a dark corner to cry alone, but now I see I was wrong. But then, I'm really not surprised.

"It's not like I've forgotten how eager you were that night, Slim. Never thought you had it in you. Were you the same way with Jean? Or is it just me?"

Scott didn't answer at first, just kept staring back at Logan. His fist tightened, mouth became a thin white line.

"You know, Logan, I really want to beat the hell out of you right now," he finally admitted.

Logan laughed.

"Considering what happened the last time you tried to, Summers, how can I say "no"?" His voice was different now, no notes of sadness or anger in it, only lust. Scott was surprised at how much it turned him on. Especially right now, when he really should not have been aroused.

“Jean’s dead, and you suggest we fuck while her ashes is not even cold yet?”

“What happened, Summers? Your conscience finally got to ya? Didn’t seem to bother you that much while Jeannie was still around, now did it?”

“Dammit, Logan, what do you want? You want me to admit I’ve cheated on her? Is that what you want? Fine, I’ll admit it. Go wake up everyone and I’ll just say it out loud if that’s what it takes for you to leave me alone.”

“All I want, Slim,” Logan said calmly, “is for you to admit the truth.”

“Go to hell, Logan,” Scott stood up and turned away.

"It's alright, Cyclops. I've seen men like you before. You know why the Professor is is still in charge of the X-Men, not you? Why he keeps telling you that you're not ready? Because you'll never be a good leader. Because you're too fuckin' afraid of yourself."

Scott turned and looked at him again.

"You wanna talk leadership, Logan? Funny, here I thought you don't like teamwork anyway. But then, why should you? At least I care about the X-men. You? You're an animal. If you can't kill or fuck something, you lose interest in it. You only care about yourself, and the others can go to hell, right? You'll be with X-men as long as it's convenient, and then you'll just trade us for Avengers or leave, because that's what you do, isn't it?"


	2. In raging night

This time I hit him first.

He didn't try to resist, didn't even see it coming. One moment we were just talking, me sitting on the sand, him standing a few feet away, ready to leave - and next thing I knew, my fist hit him right in the solar plexus, and all he could do was to gasp for air, unable to talk, much less to scream.

It felt good, as always. Not just seeing Scott in pain, but touching him, just for a tiny little moment, feeling the heat of his skin. Wondering what will come next. And I was lucky, because it was a punch in the jaw, and even if it hurt, he was touching me. That was all that mattered. Scott didn't stop, just kept hitting me. He mostly missed, too. His anger blinded him. Made him sloppy.

It was not like the first time we had fought, when, for a split second, I thought I was going to kill him. This was different, me taunting him, getting closer to him with each strike, and him giving up to his booze-fueled anger. This was foreplay. At least to me.

So when he tried to trip me, I fell down, grabbing what was left of his clothes, taking him with me. And for a moment, we stayed like that, with him on top of me; so hard under that torn uniform of his, so confused and so desperate. His hips jerked when he tried to reach for my neck and moved, sending out a jolt of sweet sensation through our bodies. He froze. I could see him closing his eyes behind the thick ruby glass, as if he couldn't decide what to do now and tried to concentrate and think.

And then it was my turn. I reached out to touch him. Ran my fingers along his cock, feeling the heat through the fabric. He let out a moan when I did it, but didn't say anything. His clothes were a complete mess by this time, so I let out a claw and cut it from his body. Scott didn't flinch, as if he didn't seem to mind. I kept touching and rubbing him, and he didn't mind that, either, just moaned a bit louder, grinding his hips against mine. And then he wasn’t moaning any more.

I heard him grunt, behind his teeth. I coundn't see his eyes, but something in his face made me cautious.

"Logan," he said, and something in his voice was strange, broken. "Logan, please... Don't. Let me go".

Part of me - big part of me - didn't want to let him go. What it wanted was to hold Scott firmly in place and just keep going, to show him how good it could be, better than that first time that night, when we both didn't know what to do. It wanted to get on top of him, inside him; it kept telling me that he would like it, that he was enjoying this, because he was so hard.

And then all saw was red light and all I could feel was pain, like a goddamn block of concrete fell on my chest stomping me into the ground. Crushing my ribs, smashing my lungs, lasting forever.

Summers. Cyclops. Scott.

I lay on the ground after he put his visor back on, feeling how my body restored itself. Not that I really can feel it. I didn't know how long I was just lying there. Could have been thirty seconds. Could have been half an hour. But when I stood up and looked around, Summers was there. I looked at him, and coundn't see his eyes. Was he angry at me? At himself? Was he sorry? Did he want to tell me something? I couldn't tell. It was annoying.

"I'm sorry", I muttered, trying not to look Scott in the eyes. He stood beside me rather awkwardly, covering himself with the rags that used to be his uniform.

"Sorry about that. Look, I can go to my cabin, fetch you something", I offered.

"There is no need." Yup. Definitely angry.

"You sure?"

"Logan. Go away. Right. Now." His voice was cold and angry, and I realized that he wouldn't be above zapping me with his eye beams again had I tried to say anything else.

I felt him watching me closely as I was walking away. I didn't look back and had no idea if he expected me to. I didn't care about that - at that moment, I hated myself.

I hated myself for everything I had done, but mostly for having believed that staying with the X-men was a good idea. I knew it wasn't. I had always known that. But I stayed anyway, mostly to mess with Summers' head. Or I so thought back then. It was now painfully obvious that I had been thinking with my dick. I should have realized it sooner. But our desires ("subconscious" as Prof X called it) have a funny way of seeping into our thought process and pretending to be completely normal and rational. I may have wanted to fuck Scott Summers from the first day we had met, but, as usual, I became aware of that fact when it was too late for taking precautions. And by taking precautions I mean run like hell.

I wasn't afraid of being attracted to another guy. It wouldn't have been the first time anyway. I was afraid of something altogether different: fondness. Attachment. Love. I usually tell myself it's for the well-being of others: being my friend tends to get people in trouble. Being my lover tends to get people killed. But the truth is, I simply don't want to feel the hurt of a loss once again. I'm tired of convincing myself that I'll do it right this time, I'll never let my loved ones down, and failing at it. I'm tired of feeling responsible, as if I killed them with my own hands.

And I’ve lost too many people I loved. Now I just don’t allow myself to have friends, to have lovers. Sure, I must have broken someone’s hopes, but I figure broken hopes are better than broken spines. And now I made a mistake. I fell in love. With Scott Summers, of all people.

Where the hell had my brains been when it happened?


End file.
